The Haunting In Winterfell
by dumbledearme
Summary: AU. Lyanna Mormont, fifteen, is haunted by ghosts. Literally. She's to guide the ones who died and don't know where to go. But not all ghosts want to leave the land of the living. And there's one in particular (the ghost of the boy who lives in her room) Lya doesn't want to get rid of. Ever. Because she might be in love with him. Jon Snow/Lyanna Mormont
1. Winter Is Coming

Nothing belongs to me, I'm not **George R. R. Martin** or **Meg Cabot** , nor do I know them or got their permission for this.

For who doesn't know _The Mediator_ is a series of  amazing books. The plot is great, I just love it to bits and always wanted to make a crossover between _The Mediator_ and _Game of Thrones_. But the real idea only came to me when I saw little  Lyanna Mormont proclaiming Jon Snow as _King in the North_. Gosh, I'm so in love with this girl, you have no idea...

 _Raise your hand if you feel the same!_

So **Lyanna Mormont** and **Jon Snow** is my new **OTP**. Like damn, it feels so good to share this. But before you say _'that's sick, she's like ten!'_ lemme say that I'm aware of that and, though I want them to be together, of course I want her to grow the hell up first, guys. I think he could wait. I think he would. And should. Also, since I know it's probably never going to happen (them being together, I mean) I decided to write about it and sink as the captain of this ship.

Oh, and another thing, this is **AU** so is very different from the original universe of GOT. I made a ton of changes in the characters too so I could fit them in the story. Lyanna is now the child of Jorah and Dacey Mormont, okay? Just because.

The characters will be coming slowly, so no rush, alright? And I dearly hope you enjoy this.

* * *

Lya knew there would be snow; after all, it was the North. But even though she'd been warned she felt her eyes almost pop off her face when she returned to her home land. It'd been more than ten years since she'd been sent to live in Highgarden under the guardianship of Lady Olenna Tyrell. Lya hadn't enjoyed the separation, but had to admit she'd been sort of happy running around Highgarden, horseback riding through the colorful fields of the Reach, eating their grapes, learning from the Queen of Thorns' sharp tongue and Margaery's nerve and, occasionally, sitting by the window to watch the young Loras practicing his fighting skills in the yard, shirtless most of the time...

 _Yeah,_ thinking about it, _it hadn't been so bad._

But now she was back. She'd been summoned for her mother's second wedding, this time to the recent-made widower Lord of Winterfell. Lya wasn't vexed when she first heard of the alliance. She understood that political marriage alliances were sometimes necessary to strengthen relations between powerful families. She just couldn't understand why she had to go live with them now that she'd accepted her place in Highgarden with Loras naked chest! If the first separation hadn't hurt enough, now Lya had to abandon the people who'd been her family for the last ten years and the only true friend she'd ever known. _Here We Stand_ were the Mormont words, still Lyanna couldn't seem to stand anywhere for long.

But no. She was not vexed.

They were all standing at the gates of Winterfell, the great castle of the kings of winter. Lya didn't remember how enormous it truly was. In fact, she remembered mostly nothing of the life she had had before the sun and the flowers of the South. They were all there to give her greetings — Dacey, her lady mother, Lord Eddard Stark and his extensive offspring: Robb, Sansa, Arya, Brandon and Rickon, each one of them standing beside a giant wolf. The servants were also there, the maester, the master-at-arms, and even Theon Greyjoy, Balon Greyjoy's heir, raised by the Starks as Lyanna had been raised by the Tyrells.

Dacey let out a whimper when she saw her daughter but even without that Lya would've recognized her. It was perhaps the one thing she remembered correctly. Her mother's height, lankness, stern eyes, pointy nose and a set of full lips. Dacey embraced her with strong arms and squeezed her until Lyanna's bones cracked. Robb and Theon exchanged an amused glance and the latter chuckled softly. Lya rolled her eyes. Dacey didn't seem to notice anything that wasn't her only child and kept saying, "My Lya! My precious little Lya!"

Lyanna decided she needed to make her position quite clear with her new family. She wasn't about to put up with giggling or any other sort of bullying, so she quickly began eyeing the boys and girls with her evilest of stares, the one that made clear Lyanna Mormont was not to be fucked with.

"How was your journey, Lady Mormont?" the Lord of Winterfell asked politely. The name caught her a little by surprise but she should've anticipated it. After all, with Lady Dacey becoming a Stark, Lyanna would be the last living Mormont.

 _And what a fate that was._

She was tired but it wouldn't do to admit that in front of her new brothers and sisters. Lya needed to be strong. She was the blood of the bear. And just as fierce as one. "Nothing I couldn't do again," she answered sharply with a nod.

Lord Eddard Stark was a good enough man. Charming when needed, with a kind smile, even though he carried the cold features of the Starks — the long nose, the cold eyes and the black hair. It was almost what a Mormont was supposed to look like. Almost. But the bear was bigger where the wolf was more solemn.

"I'm so very glad to have you back," Dacey said giving Lyanna yet another hug. "You'll love Winterfell, Lya. It's nothing like Bear Island, in truth, and at first I didn't feel quite at home, but now that you're here... We've prepared a small bedchamber for you. I remembered you don't like large rooms or anything too feminine, so I've picked the simplest of them. I believe you'll find it quite to your taste."

Of the Stark children, Lya liked Brandon the most although he was a real chatter mouth. He'd had his spine crushed during what was now known as the 'Winterfell Inferno' and had to be carried everywhere by a giant of a servant who knew only one word which was his own name. As soon as Dacey stopped babbling, Bran started vomiting facts about Winterfell and the man who'd built it, some other Brandon Stark.

The eldest, Robb, was handsome, Lya noticed — tall, redhead, with large blue eyes; the Tully look. He was what Margaery would call hot. But the Starks weren't known by their bright intellect, Lya reminded herself, thinking looks weren't everything, and wondering how that would affect the boy in the future.

Sansa, the eldest of the two girls, looked like her brother, also kissed by fire and with her mother's family bright blue eyes. She was as delicate as Margaery and just as pretty. Lya remembered the envy she had felt the first time she had met the Tyrell girl in Highgarden... She'd definitely come out of the shadow of one beautiful girl just to be put in another's. However, the younger one, Arya, had the Stark looks, and was maybe the only one who truly did. Long face, gray eyes and dark hair. Oh, and the Greyjoy boy... Lya wished he'd stop with that stupid grin of his.

Bran was still talking about Brandon the Builder. He explained the castle had been built around an ancient godswood and over natural hot springs, so the water was piped through walls and chambers to heat them, making Winterfell more comfortable than other castles during the harsh northern winters. Lya thought it'd be useful to keep the boy around so she could learn again everything about the North.

While he spoke, Lya looked around her. She hadn't been here long but could already feel the mysticism that made the lands of the North so unique. The air felt different. It felt familiar. It really was home.

That was when something occurred to her. "Forgive me, but when did you say the castle was built?"

"Over eight thousand years ago," said Bran readily, "with the help of giants. For most of recorded history, it was the seat of House Stark, the Kings in the North, and later as Wardens of the North, after King Torrhen bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror and his dragons. As the regional capital of the North, harvest feasts have been hosted in Winterfell for centuries—"

"Eight thousand years?" Lya repeated staring wide-eyed at the tall towers covered in snow. She was in fact wondering if the castle would be full of _them_.

See, the problem was Lya could speak to the dead. Or better saying, the dead spoke to her. Lya decidedly didn't go around searching for this type of chitchat. No. Truthfully, she tried to avoid them as much as possible. Only they wouldn't leave her alone.

She didn't consider herself crazy — not near enough the mental level of the Mad King. But Dacey had had some doubts and never appreciated the whole 'I see dead people' factor. And because of it, when Lya was five years old and kept talking to her dead father, Dacey decided to sent her somewhere sunny and happy, where she assumed the ghosts wouldn't follow.

How little did she know. There was no place safe from ghosts. They'd find Lya. They'd _always_ find her.

She could still remember her first, even though she'd been barely two-years-old at the time. She could remember as well as having freed a large gray rat from the clutches of a tomcat and keeping it safe in her arms until Dacey took it from her and threw it away. Back then, Lya didn't know ladies were supposed to fear rats. Or ghosts, for that matter. Maybe that's why, thirteen years later, neither one scared her still.

Frightened her sometimes. And certainly annoyed her a lot. But scare her? Never.

The apparition, like the rat, was small, grayish and unprotected. Lya never found out who it was, but later in life suspected it to have been Maege Mormont, her grandmother whom she'd never met, the _she-bear_. Lya spoke very little to her, some made up toddler words Maege couldn't have understood. The ghost simply stared at Lya, so sad, from the top of the stair of the castle in Bear Island. Lya wanted to help it. She just didn't know how. So she ended up doing what every other child would do: she ran to mommy.

That's when Lyanna Mormont learned her first lesson about ghosts: only she could see them. And she could see _all of them_. Any of them. Anyone who'd died and for some reason still walked the land of Westeros. And that meant a huge amount of ghosts, no joke.

That same day, Lya also learned her second lesson about ghosts: _in the end, it was better never to say you'd seen one._

Daily she was given explanations about practically everything she saw — so why not the thing at the top of the stairs? Only later, did Lya understand Dacey couldn't explain that thing because she hadn't see it. To her, it wasn't there. At two-years-old, this didn't seem absurd. It was just another thing that made adults different from children. And although she'd been only two, Lyanna understood that that thing at the top of the stairs should not be mentioned. With anyone. Ever.

And what would she even say? She could see them. They spoke to her. Most of the time, she wouldn't get what they wanted and they would just leave. Period.

Things would probably stay this way indefinitely if Ser Jorah Mormont hadn't died so suddenly. That's right. Just like that. There he was one pale day telling stories about the Forest of Qohor and Vaes Dothrak like he'd enjoyed doing, and the next day he was gone. And during the whole week that followed his death, Lya sat on a rock by the cold beach of Bear Island waiting for his return while people told her he wouldn't come back.

She never believed it. Yeah, fine, he was dead. But he'd come back. Her father might be dead but surely _she_ would see him again. Everyday she saw a whole bunch of dead people. Why not her lord father?

She'd been right in the end. Ser Jorah Mormont had died. No doubt about that. But Lyanna did see him again. And he was the one who finally took the time to explain things to her. Lya was the mediator, the one people asked for help after death. Meaning Lya didn't see every dead person... just the miserable ones.

Still staring at the tall towers covered in snow, Lya had a vision of the woods and ponds, the patios protected from the sun, the marble columns of Highgarden. There she hadn't been surrounded by lost souls. There had only been singers, painters and truly beautiful people. And fields of golden roses that stretched as far as the eye could see. There, the sun shunned all who'd been touched by death. While here, in this land of eternal winter, Lya was sure there would be thousands of ghosts.

Dacey must've noticed the look in her daughter's face because she said softly: "Oh, Lyanna, we've talked about this."

"I don't understand," said Lord Stark. "Is there a problem?"

Dacey answered without the slightest inflection in her voice: "My daughter never like cold, dark towers."

"Ah," said Lord Stark obviously finding the entire thing a bit odd. "It must be a shocking difference after so long in the South."

Lya didn't like where that conversation was headed. It sounded like they thought she wasn't a true northerner. Like she required light and warm to survive. And that wasn't true. She wouldn't let it be true. She was Lyanna Mormont of Bear Island. The blood of the bear. The last Mormont.

"Wait," said Sansa, in a mocking way. "Is Lady Lyanna afraid of the dark?" Some of the little ones giggled and Lord Stark told them to be quiet.

"You'd be too," said Lya without bothering to deny it. They wouldn't believe anything she said anyway. It was always like this with children. "If you knew what hides in there."

Without another word, she allowed her mother to guide her through the maze that was Winterfell. Dacey showed her to the balcony, glancing back at her daughter from time to time, as if afraid of what Lya might think. And although Lya was sure Winterfell would be filled with ghosts, she couldn't help appreciate what she was seeing — from the balcony, she could see the North stretching in the horizon, the little town, the harbor, the sea. It was an amazing view.

But when Dacey went to show her her bedchamber where she'd be staying, Lya felt a shiver.

The Stark castle was as beautiful inside as it was on the outside, everything grayish and blue and white. The room was at the second floor, right above the roof of the balcony. Even though it was the smallest room in the castle, there was a large three face window with a comfortable seat. There was nothing girly in there except a dressing table that had obviously been added for Lya's benefit.

It was nice, cozy and it reminded Lya of the room she had had back at Bear Island. Walking around, touching the things that didn't belong to her, she thought mayhaps it wouldn't be so bad. Everything seemed fine so far. Perhaps nobody had been miserable in this—

She turned to face the window and saw someone already sitting there, someone who hadn't been there a minute before, someone who _shouldn't_ be there. Lya looked at her mother to see if she had noticed the stranger. She hadn't, even though he was right there. Dacey only had eyes for Lya. Her expression changed drastically and she said with a whimper, "Oh, Lya, not again...?!"

Lya turned her back to the ghost. "No. I'm fine. It's fine. It's wonderful, actually. Thank you, mother."

Dacey made it clear she didn't believe a word Lya was saying but neither did she insist on it. "Good. Then change for dinner." She headed to the door, stopped, turned back and said in that abrupt way of the Mormonts, "I want you to be happy, Lyanna. Will you be happy here?"

Lya forced a tiny smile and nodded. "It already feels like home." And she meant it too because where there were ghosts there was also Lyanna Mormont.

Dacey walked out, closing the door. Lya waited until her footsteps had vanished in the distance and then faced the intruder. "All right," she said, hands on her waist. "Who in seven hells are you?"


	2. The Bastard Of Winterfell

His astonishment was so intense it became comical. He went ahead and looked over his shoulder to see if it was really him she was addressing. But of course, the only thing behind him was the window, and beyond it, that incredible view of the northern lands. So he ended up turning back to look at Lya, and must have seen that her gaze was fastened directly on his face, since he breathed _'by the old gods,'_ in a voice that sounded rusty from disuse.

"It's no use calling on the higher powers," she informed him, crossing her arms to show him who the boss was. "In case you haven't noticed, _they_ aren't paying attention to you. Otherwise, they wouldn't have left you here to fester for..." Lya took in his outfit, which looked considerably new. "How long has it been?"

He stared at her, his black eyes still wide from shock, and said in that low voice, "What do you mean...?"

Lya couldn't help rolling her eyes. Impatiently, she translated: "How long have you been dead?"

He narrowed his eyes like that little piece of information was too a surprise. "I died," he agreed like it wasn't obvious. And instead of answering her question, he shook his head. "I don't understand," he said, in tones of wonder. "I don't understand how it is that you can see me. All these years, no one has ever—"

"Yes," she cut him off, tired of always hearing the same thing. Ghosts were so selfish. All they did was talk about themselves. "Yes, it is shocking."

He blinked those long, dark lashes. It wasn't often Lya ran into a ghost who also happened to be… well, _handsome_. And this one in particular... hell, he must have been something back when he was alive because here he was totally dead and Lya was struggling against the will to catch a peek at what was going on beneath his black garments. Trying to keep it professional, she cleared her throat and gave him that feral look she did so well.

"What is your problem? Why are you still here?" He looked at her, his expression blank but interested. Lya elaborated. "Why haven't you gone to the other side?"

He shook his head again. He had a mane of black hair, so thick and so dark that made him seem ever paler in death. "I don't know what you mean."

Lya was getting sort of warm, but it was snowing outside, so she didn't know what to do about it. "What do you mean, you don't know what I mean?" she snapped, pushing some hair away from her eyes. "You are dead. You don't belong here. You're supposed to be somewhere else doing whatever it is that happens to people after they die. You're not supposed to… to stay _here_."

He looked at her thoughtfully. "What if I like to be here?" he wanted to know.

Lya wasn't sure, but she had a feeling he was making fun of her. And if there was someone who didn't like being made fun of it was Lady Lyanna Mormont of Bear Island. Not at all. When she was little and had just arrived in Highgarden, people used to do it all the time. That is, until Lya learned how effectively a fist connecting with their nose could shut them up. But she wasn't ready to start hitting this guy here — _not yet_. She was getting there, only... Lya had just traveled a gazillion miles for what had seemed like forever in order to live with a bunch of stupid kids and then had found a ghost in her chambers...?

"Whoever you are, you can stay wherever you like. Go ahead, stay forever. I don't care. But you can't stay here."

"Jon Snow," he said, not moving.

"What?"

"That's who I am."

Lya nodded briefly. _It makes sense,_ she thought, realizing who she was talking to. "I don't care, Jon Snow. You can't stay here."

"What's your name?" he asked seeming like he was enjoying the rough way she spoke.

Lya glued her eyes on his. "I don't have time for this. Tell me what you want, then go away."

"Lady Dacey called you... Lyanna, wasn't it?" he said, black eyes glimmering. "That was my father's sister's name. The _she-wolf_. The wildest damsel of all the North, they used to call her. They obviously never met you."

Suddenly, Lya felt very self-aware. Was that an insult she had heard, somewhere in what he'd said? She felt her face blush. "And you are the bastard of Winterfell," she said unkindly.

That stung, she could tell. His lips parted but he made no sound. When he did manage to speak again, he used an angry tone that matched hers. "Lord Eddard Stark is my father, yes. However, Lady Stark isn't my mother."

"Thus making you the bastard," Lya insisted. "Look, let's make something very clear, Jon Snow. Lord Eddard Stark _was_ your father. When you were alive. In the past. Now there's a new lady in Winterfell. _My_ mother. And this is _my_ room. So you need to leave."

"I need to leave?" he raised a thick, black eyebrow. "I've been here longer. Why do I have to leave?"

Lya was getting really mad. Mostly because she felt so hot and wanted to open a window, but the windows were behind him, and she didn't want to get that close to the dead boy. "This is my room. I'm not about to share it with some dead bastard."

This time the message got through. Lya instantly wished she hadn't said anything. She watched his angry face contort. At the same time, the old mirror hanging over her new dressing table started to wobble dangerously on the hook that held it to the wall.

That was the thing about ghosts: _they were so temperamental!_ The slightest thing could set them off.

"Hey," she called, holding up both her hands, palms outward. "Stop that!"

But Jon Snow was pissed off. He started complaining about a lot of things Lyanna didn't care about wagging a finger in her face. _The nerve!_

"Hey!" she said again, irritated. Lya violently slapped his hand away from her face and hissed: "Stop with the mirror already. And next time you raise a finger at me will be the last time you have fingers." She saw, with satisfaction, that the mirror had stopped shaking.

Then she glanced back at his face. Ghosts didn't have blood, of course. But at that moment, all the color drained from Jon Snow's face. Looking down at his own finger as if she had burned a hole through it, he seemed perfectly incapable of saying anything else. It was probably the first time he'd been touched by anyone since dying.

Lya took advantage of his astonishment, and said, in her sternest, most no-nonsense tone: "Listen carefully, Jon Snow. This is my room. You can't stay here. You need to either let me help you get to where you're supposed to go, or you'll have to find some other castle to haunt."

Jon Snow looked up from his finger, his expression still one of utter disbelief. "Who are you?" he asked softly. "What kind of… _girl_ are you?" He hesitated so long before he said the word girl that it was clear he wasn't at all certain it was an appropriate term in her case.

 _Outrageous._

"I'm the girl who'll kill you a second time if you don't disappear," she said crankily. "It is up to you. I'll give you some time to consider it. But when I return, I don't wish to see you anymore." Lya turned around and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

There was no other way. She didn't usually lose arguments with spirits, but she had a feeling she was losing that one, and badly. She shouldn't have been so short with him, and she shouldn't have been rude. Something had happened in there, something had come over her... Was it because of how he looked?

 _Maybe I should visit the godswood and ask for the help of the old gods,_ she thought heading down the stairs. What else could she do if he refused to leave?

 _Give him some time, Lyanna._

He'll understand. They always do.

Well, most of the time, anyway.

* * *

Dinner was very much like it'd been in Highgarden: a lot of food everywhere, coming and going, and everybody laughing and speaking at the same time. The northerner boys were definitely nothing like Loras though — they chewed with their mouths open, and ate every single lemon cake before Lya even had the chance to taste one.

Afterwards, she decided it'd be wiser to avoid her room and give Jon Snow plenty of time to make up his mind about whether he was leaving with or without his teeth. Lya wasn't a big fan of violence — although she was considered an extremely violent girl by many. It was an unfortunate by-product of her profession: sometimes the only way you could make someone listen was with your fists. A technique well mastered in Bear Island, she remembered.

Astoundingly, little Arya offered to show her around the castle. Lya thought the girl had a suspiciously mischievous grin, but decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. They started the tour in the upper chambers, large and warm, and then made their way down and outside. The stable had beautiful horses well taken care of. They were white, black, brown and gray. Lya was in love with horses and, by the way Arya's eyes glistened, it was likely she felt the same. The kennels weren't half as interesting and only had a few dozen hounds already asleep. But there was this particular wicket that seemed to hold a wild, uncontrollable beast.

Lya stopped in her tracks. "What's in there?"

A shadow crossed Arya's face. "Ghost," she said darkly.

Lya's heart skipped a beat. _What did she mean?_ A... a ghost? Could she see them as well? It was too much for a single day in Winterfell. And how could she have imprisoned a spirit? It was unheard of. I didn't make any sense.

Lya tried not to show her emotions. "What do you mean?"

Arya bit her lip like she didn't want to get into the subject. "Direwolf," she explained. "My brother's. Half... half-brother," she corrected. "Jon. He called him Ghost."

 _Oh._ So Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, had also been given a direwolf from his father's banners. But the name... Why was it making Lya's soul tremble with fear?

"Why is he in there?" she asked.

"Because of you." Arya turned her back at Lya and kept walking.

Lya had to rush to keep up. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Since Jon—" her little voice died away. Arya took a deep breath and tried again. "Ghost liked to stay in Jon's room. He didn't want to leave. Ever. For anything. But with your coming here... Father thought you shouldn't be forced to live with something that might eat you through the night."

Lya mentally thanked Eddard Stark for that. And truthfully, it was probably Jon Snow's fault the beast wouldn't leave the room. He was probably seeking his owner's companionship. If Jon were to leave, it was likely the wolf wouldn't insist on being there. Lya had absolutely nothing to do with anything. She didn't even want to be here, much less in Jon Snow's bedchamber.

Arya kept walking, showing Lya unimportant things, until she arrived where she had been meaning to go, in the oldest section of Winterfell, near the First Keep, where she stopped before an old and heavy ironwood door.

"Where are we going?" Lya asked warily.

"You'll see." Arya grabbed a torch from the wall.

They went down a narrow and winding spiral stone steps until Arya chose a floor and headed through a dark and chilly corridor. It contained a long line of granite pillars, two by two, between which were — Lya shockingly realized — entombed the dead members of House Stark.

"All family members can have tombs in the crypts, but statues are only made for Kings in the North and Lords of Winterfell," the small girl clarified. Lya could see the likenesses of these high lords carved into the stone, some shaggy, some clean shaven. Some had large stone direwolves curled at their feet. "According to tradition, iron longswords across each lord's lap keep vengeful spirits within the crypt. But Bran can explain this better than I can."

That's when Lya understood what they were doing down there: Arya wanted to scare her. It should be some sort of rite of passage the Starks did to their newcomers or any sort of outsider. Of course, little Arya couldn't have known it would take more than dead people to scare Lyanna Mormont.

"The older Starks are buried in deeper and darker levels," Arya continued. "The lowest level is said to be partly collapsed so we can't go there."

Lya stopped dead in front of the statue of Lady Lyanna Stark who had been kidnapped by Prince Rhaegar Targaryen — which resulted in the eradication of the blood of the dragon and the ascension of the House Baratheon to the iron throne. She was pretty, in truth, otherwise irresponsible for letting that happen to her. A true northerner girl would've cut the dragon prince in a thousand pieces and fed him to the wolves. Lya didn't understand why her namesake had been granted a statue when she hadn't been king or lord of anything. By her side was yet another Brandon Stark and Lord Rickard Stark, her brother and father.

The most recent tombs were further back. The one that belonged to Ned Stark was unsealed, waiting for him, right beside his first wife, Catelyn Tully. And way further in the dark, alone and secluded, was a tomb Lya could barely look at. She knew what that tomb would say without reading it — the dead bastard in her room was enough warning.

She tried to think of whatever she knew about Jon Snow. He'd been born during the war from an affair Eddard Stark had with... _whoever_. He'd been raised in Winterfell among the other children of his lord father. And he had died when the last, long lost, Targaryens had come seeking vengeance for what had been done to their family.

The 'Winterfell Inferno' had been talked about throughout the Seven Kingdoms and back. The prince and princess with silver hair started collecting souls in the North. Their greatest mistake. They were defeated almost effortlessly. Yet, a lot of people had died that day. Everyone had lost someone. Everyone—

Suddenly, Rickon Stark came out from behind the statue, covered in flour from head to toes, his hands raised, yelling _"booo!"_

Lya crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. "You'll have to do better than that," she said.

Arya shook her head. "Jon was a much better ghost," she chastised the little boy.

There it was again, the words 'Jon' and 'ghost' in the same sentence. For the first time in her life, Lya thought she was actually being haunted by someone. Was that possible?

It was only then that a wave of tiredness hit her after the long journey across the Seven Kingdoms. Saying goodnight to the others, she gather what was left of her courage and returned to the small chamber that was now hers. Supposedly.

She went straight to the window and opened it. There was nobody in there beside her. Lya glanced around, feeling the cold wind of the North seeping in, the only sound being the occasional hoot of an owl or the howl of a wolf.

She was alone. Really alone. A ghost-free zone. Exactly what she'd always wanted.

Lya got into bed and blew out her candle. But just before she fell asleep, she thought she heard something besides the owl.

 _"My bear so fair... And off they went, from here to there, the bear, the bear, and the maiden fair."_

It sounded like someone singing but Lya was sure that was just her imagination.


End file.
